


Caro Data Vermibus

by Vsuky



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Anxiety, Character Study, Cynical stan, Depressed Stan Marsh, Drunk Stan, Dysfunctional Family, Horror, It's supposed to be just sad and cute but..., Mental Breakdown, Remember the good times, Stan loved his dog, Vomit, burial, hypocritical nihilist, mentions of friends
Language: Español
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:48:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22617397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vsuky/pseuds/Vsuky
Summary: Stan entierra su perro-Stan buries his dog(English is not my first language, so you can expect some mistakes in writing)
Relationships: Stan Marsh & Family, Stan Marsh & Sparky
Kudos: 2





	1. Español

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan entierra su perro
> 
> (English version in the second page)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Las sandias flotan

La sensación de hundimiento estomacal antes del vomito, es siempre desagradable.

Es una sensación de inevitabilidad. Él sabe que el vómito no retrocederá y que solo tiene unos segundos para actuar y que si se equivoca terminara culpándose a sí mismo por el desastre que tiene que limpiar. Y aunque hoy hubo una risa vacía antes de la expulsión, ni siquiera así se siente mejor.

Como es tradicional, el sabor ácido restante le quema la garganta. El hundimiento y sabor agrio son malos, pero él diría que la peor parte es como se siente el estómago después de la regurgitada. Siempre se siente como si el órgano se doblara sobre sí mismo, listo para marchitarse y morir. No es agradable, la resaca se siente más ligera después de botar la comida del día por la nariz, pero ahora tendrá un capullo digestivo muerto por un rato.

Stan mira el vómito, su cara intenta reflejarse en el charco de lo que fue pasta con albóndigas y falla. La carne, se da cuenta, se sumerge en el líquido verdoso casi intacta, como si no se hubiese digerido del todo. No es sorprendente, su estómago siempre ha sido débil y con facilidad para regurgitar desde que era niño.

Él se encoje ante la vista. Hoy no quiere dejar el sofá de la sala, es muy cómodo, familiar para su cuerpo. Además, está caliente, y la calidez es totalmente bienvenida porque el día esta malditamente frió. Incluso se esforzó en evitar ensuciarlo durante la catarata estomacal, porque él sabe que el sofá siempre huele un poco a cerveza y salsa de tomate, pero por lo menos no olerá a vomito.

_Esta vez_

Es casi anormal lo fácilmente que logra expulsar vomito. Empieza a pensar que quizás esa facilidad es algo más complicado, como una bacteria que ha tenido desde la niñez o alguna cosa hereditaria maligna. Una sonrisa amarga se dibuja fugazmente en su rostro ante la idea, su familia heredándole algún órgano de mierda es totalmente probable.

Se acurruca un poco más en el cojín suave, consciente de que su garganta le duele, pero feliz de no haber ensuciado su nido de pereza con la cosa apestosa.

En la televisión aún se reproduce ese programa sobre salas de emergencias, el capítulo de hoy es protagonizado por una enfermera rubia que sobre actúa todo lo que sucede y hace que cada caso se sienta falso. Cuando se enfoca en escuchar de nuevo se da cuenta de que el tipo que recibió el balazo en el pene está mejorando. Stan solo sonríe esta vez porque lo que sucedió cuando se rió del caso hace unos momentos aún está manchando el suelo. Él sabe que ese programa lo pasan los sábados a las 4:15 pm, lo sabe desde que comenzó a verlo, y lo sabe ahora que son las 5:19 pm y está terminando.

Ahora que el pene ha sido restaurado, ya no le hace gracia, y decide que lo mejor es empezar porque se hizo tarde.

Levantarse del sofá es tortuoso, él gime ante la molestia de existir fuera de la comodidad. Su cuerpo también gime a su manera, crujiendo huesos, reviviendo músculos y siendo muy pesado de usar. El vómito no se extendió mucho, así que en su camino al baño se decide a limpiarlo más tarde, cuando se vuelva más seco y fácil de limpiar, limpiar vomito fresco siempre era un dolor en el culo.

En el baño, el espejo refleja la cara desaliñada de un hombre universitario.

“Un jodido desastre” dice la figura con ojeras y pelo desordenado que lo mira desde es cristal.

Es una de esas ocasiones extrañas donde siente que quien aparece en el espejo es otra persona, alguien que ni siquiera se parece a él y lo hace sentir muy solo de repente. Mientras se observa a sí mismo arruga el ceño en disgusto, no se ha afeitado el bigote en varios días, probablemente cuatro. Se rasurará más tarde.

Nunca había sido muy atractivo, pero hoy se ve _realmente_ mal. Su imagen, piensa él, podría ser parte de algún cartel comparativo, de esos que usan las campañas contra la adicción, los que muestran el antes y después de las personas. Si, hoy él es totalmente un ‘después de consumir drogas’. Quizás podría encajar mejor en uno de alcoholismo, por el tambaleo y la mancha de vómito que le corre de la nariz a la barbilla, pero los ojos rojos e hinchados quedan mejor con la drogadicción.

Con bigote Stan se parece mucho a su padre, siempre lo disgusta, pero hoy es más bien fascinante.

Él no puede recordar cómo se ve actualmente su padre, pero sabe que él se parece al Randy Marsh que lo crió mientras estaba en secundaria. Aunque Stan es más alto, todavía tenían más en común de lo que le gustaba pensar: falta de pelo abundante en cualquier parte de la cara que no fuese bajo la nariz, cabello negro, mentón amplio, pecho peludo, la inclinación a evadir las responsabilidades y ahora también la botella de alcohol al lado del sofá de la sala. Él teme por un momento que se agregue a la lista el ‘continuo hedor a alcohol’ porque sabe que su madre ya no querrá abrazarlo si sucede.

Su estómago se sacude

“Oh maldición” Stan alcanza a volverse al inodoro cuando siente el comienzo de la arcada.

Después del tercer vomito las arcadas ya no producen nada más que contracciones en su cuerpo. Él apoya la cara en la taza del inodoro mientras recobra el oxígeno perdido, vagamente consciente que su camisa se manchó.

Siente que su estómago empieza a marchitarse de nuevo y él quiere dormir. Realmente no le importa si lo hace en el piso frio del baño, aunque le congele los muslos donde no lo tapa su ropa interior. Tampoco le importa si tiene la cabeza sobre el excusado, si tiene restos de comida digerida en la nariz o si su boca sabe a mierda. Se siente tan cansado…

La alarma de su teléfono suena desde la sala. Stan vuelve a gemir en dolor.

“Jesús por favor haz que se detenga por favor por favor”, el ruega. Realmente le gustaría dormir y olvidar un rato, _solo un rato por favor_. Pero Jesús es un bastardo que nunca lo escucha y la alarma continua.

Logra levantarse apoyando su brazo tembloroso en la tapa, un leve mareo lo hace sostenerse del lavamanos. Él sabe que debe hacer esto, aunque haga tanto frió que cuando toca el agua su cuerpo se estremece.

Para cuando termina de lavarse la cara y enjuagarse la boca ya la alarma se pospuso automáticamente. Camina a sala en busca de alguna ropa abrigada en la maleta al lado de la puerta y el camino parece muy largo para sus cansadas piernas. Mientras termina de ponerse la chaqueta sin cierre, se da cuenta de que su garganta paso de arder a contraerse.

Guarda su teléfono y se pone el gorro antes de salir.

En el garaje, la pala parece la misma de siempre, pero la pala quita nieves es nueva. El camino al patio parece aún más largo y el de verdad no quiere moverse porque está oscureciendo, y aunque ahora tiene pantalón, siente su cuerpo tensarse ante el frió que entra por los agujeros del jean.

Su capullo digestivo muto a lo que parece ser un saco pesado con bolas de plomo o balas. Aunque esa era una comparación demasiado violenta para su débil estómago. Quizás era algo más frágil, como una bolsa. Una bolsa con compras de la semana, compras que son demasiadas para que puedan cargarse en esa única bolsa y él no se sabe si la delgada cosa soportara durante todo el camino al departamento desde el whole food, ni porque compro esa enorme fruta que debe estar pudriéndose en su nevera ahora.

“Como una sandía estomacal” le dice a nadie, y espera que nadie responda. Sus metáforas son una mierda de poeta amateur, pero estudiaba biología marina no literatura. La alarma suena de nuevo en su bolsillo recordándole que debe moverse y él la desactiva.

Toma la pala, la quita nieves y sale al patio trasero.

El aire es cruelmente frió afuera, le pica en los ojos. Su patio, siempre vacío excepto por la casa de Sparky, el árbol y un ocasional césped, parece desolado ahora. Posa fugazmente la vista en una gran y vieja caja de Amazon al lado de la puerta trasera de la casa antes de decidir colocar la quita nieves en el suelo. La pala comienza a romper la tierra con esfuerzo.

Mientras trabaja se da cuenta de que tal vez debió tomar otro trago antes de empezar, el frió de south park estaba haciendo sus dedos cada vez más tiesos. Quizás era porque se había acostumbrado a no salir de su apartamento _o Tal vez_ era porque estaba cavando un agujero a las 6 de la tarde. El realmente no podía quejarse.

El trabajo de remover la tierra es mecánico y simple, últimamente le gustan las cosas mecánicas y simples. El piensa que a su hermana debe gustarle su trabajo, oficinista era un trabajo bastante tranquilo. Le dejaría tiempo para pasar con sus hijos y su esposo en Utah. Shelly había tenido gemelos, dos chicos bastante agradables como su padre. Stan no entendía como su malhumorada hermana había conseguido un tipo tan tranquilo. Ahora mismo deben estar disfrutando las vacaciones en Texas y jugando videojuegos mientras él se congela en el patio de su casa. Se pregunta si Shelly ya está con su madre ahora, si ellas lo están juzgando por su ausencia y sus prioridades como si todavía fuese un niño. Y ojalá lo fuese. Extraña tanto la niñez a veces.

Todos sus amigos habían elegido un camino diferente.

Wendy y él habían terminado en la secundaria, quedaron en buenos términos, ella se había ido a Europa para unirse a grupos activistas, hablaban de vez en cuando. Kyle estudiaba leyes en Denver, así que aun podían reunirse a veces, aunque cada vez menos, no tenían mucho tiempo ahora. De Cartman solo sabía que estudiaba administración de empresas en Nueva York y Kenny estudiaba enfermería en la universidad local mientras trabajaba. Cada uno siguió su propio camino hacia la vida adulta. Incluso butters, que había escapado de casa al terminar la secundaria para unirse a un grupo de motociclistas.

Una ráfaga de viento le pego directo en el rostro mojándole la cara. Maldiciendo cuando su nariz empezó a derretirse, dejo la pala para volver a la sala. Frente al televisor, la escena de la botella, el mueble y el vómito seguía allí, intacta, listos para otra toma. Él camino directo a la botella.

Stan frunció el ceño ante el líquido en el frasco de vidrio cuando el olor a whisky lo golpeo. Su madre odiaba que oliese a eso, ella creía que él se volvería un alcohólico, él evitaba discutir con ella.

El trago fue lánguido pero abundante, el calor del alcohol bienvenido en el cuerpo congelado. Él suspiro, ahora su aliento apestaba a whisky.

Stan bebía en pocas cantidades, pero lo hacía constantemente. Siempre tomaba una cantidad suficiente para mantenerse a sí mismo en pie y solo se emborrachaba cuando era un día especialmente duro. A diferencia de su padre, él no bebía por placer. Aun así, su madre insistía en que él se parecía a Randy, y él podía admitir que lo era, pero ella no comprendía que su hijo era en realidad idéntico a su suegro.

Stan Marsh y Marvin Marsh tenían mucho en común, con los años él se había dado cuenta de que eran similares en esencia: tenían la misma altura, se volvían adictos fácilmente, amaban a los animales, los envolvía una tristeza silenciosa y buscaban constantemente un afecto que nunca encontraban. Dio otro trago rápido, ahora ignorando el olor.

Caminando con la botella hacia el helado patio, Stan piensa en el hombre con la bala en el pene. Él piensa en cómo le temblaban los hombros de dolor mientras se sostenía la entrepierna y en como ahora no le parece tan divertido porque su cuerpo se sacude en escalofríos mientras sostiene una botella de whisky. Da un trago largo antes poner la botella al lado de la quita nieves y seguir cavando.

Sus dedos, se da cuenta brevemente, están manchados de verde y rojos por el esfuerzo. El viento le está secando los ojos, pero la nariz aun moquea incesantemente. Su estómago, ahora repleto de alcohol, sigue pesando cada vez más.

“Malditas sandias que no flotan” dice, y luego resopla un poco porque el pensamiento es ridículo, aunque realmente no puede recordar si las sandias flotan o no.

El agujero está listo para cuando sus manos son incapaces de sostener la pala sin temblar. Su garganta ahora esta reseca y apretada, tiene la frente sudada. Vivir en el frió es una mierda, él piensa en irse a California en cuanto acabe sus estudios, cerca del mar, lejos de montañas tristes.

Un pequeño jadeo escapa de su boca cuando sale de la excavación.

Mientras camina al otro lado del patio siente que poco a poco se le acelera la respiración y Stan empieza a pesar en que _tal vez_ sino se apresura podría morir de hipotermia en el patio de su casa. Él toma la caja en sus brazos y la presiona a su pecho mientras camina de vuelta. Esta vez cuando el viento le moja la cara, lo hace con un olor desagradable. Deben haber pasado unas cuantas horas. Aprieta un poco más fuerte la caja.

El mundo está en silencio hoy. El cielo se oscurece, pero se ve placido fuera de eso, sin nubes, con trazos naranjas que se niegan a desparecer. Le recuerda a Kenny. Él piensa en visitar a Kenny cuando llega al borde del hueco. Desde arriba, parece un agujero mal hecho, pero también acogedor como un nido extraño.

Su teléfono suena de repente haciéndolo sobresaltarse. Él mira su bolsillo, no revisara el mensaje, sabe que es su madre reprendiéndolo o su hermana insultándolo por ser una mierda, y aunque Stan se dice que _francamente_ ya no le importa, se enoja un poco.

Coloca la caja sobre el borde y se lanza al hueco. No es muy profundo, apenas le llega a la cintura, pero es amplio. Cuando sus brazos mueven la caja hacia abajo, siente el contenido rodar un poco y su rostro se contrae en preocupación. Stan acaricia la caja con dedos temblorosos mientras la acerca a su pecho.

“Buen chico, siempre fuiste un buen chico Sparky”, su voz sale ronca e irreconocible.

Él sabe que no hay nada después de este agujero sino tierra; tierra y sabanas alrededor de un cuerpo y una caja de amazon con la frase ‘El mejor perro más feroz de South Park´ escrito con sharpay negro. Pero él quiere creer hoy, y si tan solo hubiese algo después de la oscuridad, él quiere que Sparky lo escuche correctamente.

Stan se aclara la garganta y repite la frase mientras continúa acariciando. Un escalofrió corre desde sus muslos hasta su columna cuando se sienta en el suelo. 

Cuando él era niño, pensaba que Sparky era el perro gay más genial que el mundo hubiese visto. Hoy, recordando como peleaba a su lado cuando jugaban contra Cartman o como podía saltar medio metro por una croqueta, se dio cuenta de que en realidad nunca había dejado de pensarlo. No podía haberlo llevado consigo a Denver y lo sabía, pero ojalá lo hubiese visto más en los últimos años.

Lo había cuidado todo el día desde que llego esta mañana. Se mantuvo a su lado hablándole, acariciándolo cuando lloraba y esperando a que las convulsiones se terminaran. No había tenido dinero para costearle la inyección, e incluso si lo hacía, su madre se había dado cuenta del estado de Sparky apenas ayer cuando llamo a Stan, y como siempre, Stan había preguntado por él.

Ella le dijo que él estaba un poco enfermo, Stan no esperaba encontrarlo moribundo.

Sparky, el viejo Sparky, había vivido una buena vida, doce años. Y aunque Stan en los últimos tres años lo veía cada vez menos, aun lo amaba. Y aunque Sparky había perdido la vista completamente hace un año, aun movía la cola cuando escuchaba la voz de Stan. Eso sucedió incluso hoy, cuando Stan lo encontró solo, orinado encima y temblando en el patio de la casa. Su cola había dejado de moverse a las 3:40 pm.

No se supone que se quedara con Sparky. Sharon no podía creer que prefiriese cuidar al perro que ir al hospital a ver a su padre igualmente moribundo. Shelly, que estaba en el hospital con ella, también le había regañado por preferir a ‘un perro’ que su propio padre, y a él le parecía tan hipócrita que era absurdo. Randy se había ganado su colon desgastado, su hígado muerto, la ruptura de su matrimonio y el odio de su hijo. Él Podía recordar todas las veces en que no lo escucho, le mintió, lo metió en problemas, hizo llorar a su hermana, puso a su familia en peligro y los hizo pasar por un infierno porque su madre era demasiado insegura para tomar decisiones.

Y eso continuo hasta que se divorciaron por segunda y definitiva vez. Entonces el abuelo murió. Shelly termino la universidad y se fue a Texas. Sharon siguió divorciada, acostándose con Randy de vez en cuando. Randy se fue a vivir al bosque, consiguió cáncer de hígado que hizo metástasis hasta el páncreas y empezó a pedir lastima de los demás.

Y Stan entro a la universidad trabajando medio tiempo para vivir en Denver y no volver a south park más de dos días al año.

Él en serio no podía entender como ellas lo culpaban de quedarse con su perro hoy.

“Pura mierda”, susurró mientras fruncía el ceño. La luz del atardecer se había ido del todo ahora dejando solo la escasa iluminación artificial de su patio. Ahora el agujero estaba oscuro y él estaba enfadado. Debía irse al hospital o su madre no lo perdonaría.

Se dio cuenta de que había estado abrazando la caja con fuerza, quizás ira. Con una última caricia, Stan abrazo por última vez la caja, hasta que el sonido de algo rompiéndose lo congelo. Temeroso, reviso los lados, pero los laterales estaban cerrados, aunque el olor lo golpeo del todo en la nariz esta vez. Llevaba demasiado tiempo allí.

Él coloco la caja en la tierra y miro hacia arriba, un cielo oscuro y sin nubes cubría el intento de sepultura que había hecho. Se puso de pie y coloco ambos brazos sobre el borde, estaba listo para empujarse fuera del agujero cuando sintió que algo se movió sobre su mano.

En el dedo medio de su mano derecha, una pequeña larva trepaba hacia sus nudillos.

Stan la miro, incrédulo, un momento antes de notar otras dos en su muñeca. Observando de cerca, se dio cuenta que había varias más en la manga de su chaqueta y su antebrazo. El alzo ambos brazos y siguió la vista hacia su otra mano.

Un suspiro triste escapo de él cuándo se dio cuenta de que estaba limpio. Eran gusanos tierra y no pensaría más en ello. Decidido a irse, se concentró en el borde, apenas sacudió ambos brazos, pero limpio la manga de su chaqueta rápidamente y se limpió los nudillos en la camiseta, su mano se congelo en su abdomen.

Algo se movía bajo sus dedos.

Algo no, muchos.

Mientras su corazón empezaba a sonar frenéticamente en sus oídos, Stan dio dos pasos hacia la caja, donde llegaba algo de luz, y cerro los ojos con fuerza.

_Por favor no no por favor no por favor_

Alejo su mano. Inclino la cabeza hacia su pecho e intento abrir los ojos, pero él no quería mirar. Respiro hondo.

_Dios por favor_

Cuando sus ojos se abrieron, en medio de la débil luz, Stan se dio cuenta de que su camiseta estaba cubierta de larvas. Docenas de ellas. Esparcidas desde su estómago a su pecho.

Una arcada estéril lo hizo tambalearse y su cara se contorsiono en algo parecido la desilusión. Sus pulmones empezaban a necesitar más oxígeno ahora.

Su vista se enfocó en la caja. Noto que se le había hecho una abertura en un borde del centro, probablemente desde que metió el cuerpo allí. Debió abrirse más mientras él la tenía en sus brazos y ahora las larvas se arrastraban desde el agujero de la caja hacia afuera. Podía sentir como aún se movían y subían en su flácida mano.

El teléfono sonó con el tono de llamada de su hermana, y Stan pensó brevemente en sus sobrinos jugando videojuegos.

Mientras él estaba allí, en un agujero, cubierto de las malditas cosas que se estaban comiendo a su perro. Se comían sus ladridos, su amor, sus recuerdos con Stan. Se comían lo que quedaba su mejor amigo y ahora también a él. 

Ante su vista, una mosca verdusca y gorda salió volando del agujero con un zumbido repugnante. Cerro los ojos.

Stanley Marsh grito

Presiono sus manos contra sus ojos y grito. Grito mientras su teléfono notificaba la muerte de su padre. Grito mientras se mecía, sentado de nuevo al lado de su perro muerto. Grito mientras las larvas se movían desde su camisa hacia el resto de su cuerpo. Y grito cuando su cara volvió a mojarse y su nariz a derretirse.

En el momento en que escuchaba los pasos de sus vecinos apresurándose a donde él estaba, Stan pudo admitir tres cosas para sí mismo:

Se parecía cada vez más a su padre

No había nada más allá de ese agujero

No hacia frió

El cadáver de Randy Marsh fue recordado por sus amigos y conocidos por ser enterrado en lo que había sido el verano más caluroso en la historia de south park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2\. Las moscas de cadáveres no nacen hasta después de varias semanas, así que esa era una mosca madre.  
> 3\. Según una versión, los romanos escribían en sus sepulturas la inscripción "caro data vermibus", que significa "Carne dada a los gusanos". Esta expresión habría derivado en el acrónimo ca-da-ver. (Wikipedia)
> 
> Gracias por leer!


	2. English

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan buries his dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Watermelons do float

The feeling of stomach sinking before vomiting is always unpleasant.

It's a feeling of inevitability. He knows that the vomiting will not go away and that he only has a few seconds to act and if he is wrong, he will end up blaming himself for the mess he has to clean up. And although today there was an empty laugh before the expulsion, he doesn't even feel better.

As is traditional, the remaining acid taste burns in his throat. The sinking and sour taste is bad, but he would say that the worst part is how his stomach feels after the regurgitation. It always feels like the organ is bending over, ready to wither and die. It's not pleasant, the hangover feels lighter after throwing the day's food out the nose, but now he'll have a dead digestive cocoon for a while.

Stan looks at the vomit, his face tries to reflect in the puddle of what was pasta with meatballs and fails. The meat, he realizes, sinks into the greenish liquid almost intact, as if it had not been fully digested. Not surprisingly, his stomach has always been weak and easily regurgitated since he was a child.

He shrinks at the sight. Today he doesn't want to leave the living room couch; it's very comfortable, familiar to his body. Plus, it's warm, and the warmth is totally welcome because the day is so damn cold. He even tried to avoid getting it dirty during the stomach waterfall, because he knows that the couch always smells a little bit like beer and ketchup, but at least it won't smell like vomit.

_This time_

It's almost abnormal how easily he manages to expel vomit. He begins to think that perhaps that ease is something more complicated, like a bacterium he had since childhood or some malignant hereditary thing. A bitter smile is fleetingly drawn on his face at the thought, his family inheriting some shitty organ is totally likely.

He curls up a bit more on the soft cushion, aware that his throat hurts, but happy not to have soiled his lazy nest with the stinking thing.

On TV there is still that show about emergency rooms, in today's episode the star is a blonde nurse who overacts everything that happens and makes every case feel fake. When he focuses on listening again, he realizes that the guy who got shot in the penis is getting better. Stan only smiles this time because what happened when he laughed at the case a few moments ago is still staining the floor. He knows that the show is on Saturdays at 4:15 pm, he knows it since he started watching it, and he knows it now that it's 5:19 pm and it's ending.

Now that the penis has been restored, he is no longer amused, and decides it is best to start because it is getting late.

Getting off the couch is torturous; he groans at the pain of existing outside of comfort. His body also groans in its own way, crunching bones, reviving muscles and being too heavy to use. The vomit didn't spread very far, so on his way to the bathroom he decides to clean it up later, when it becomes drier and easier to clean up, cleaning up fresh vomit was always a pain in the ass.

In the bathroom, the mirror reflects the scruffy face of a college man.

"A fucking mess" says the figure with dark circles under his eyes and messy hair who looks at him from the glass.

It's one of those strange occasions where he feels that the person who appears in the mirror is someone else, someone who doesn't even look like him and makes him feel very lonely all of a sudden. As he looks at himself, he wrinkles his brow in disgust, he has not shaved his moustache in several days, probably four. He will shave later.

He has never been very attractive, but today he looks _really_ bad. His image, he thinks, could be part of some comparative poster, one of those used by anti-addiction campaigns, the ones that show the before and after of people. And today he is totally an 'after-drug user'. Maybe he would fit better into an alcoholism one, because of the wobble and vomit stain that runs from his nose to his chin, but red, puffy eyes look better with drug addiction.

With a moustache Stan looks a lot like his father, he always dislikes it, but today it's rather fascinating.

He can't remember how his father looks like today, but he knows he looks like the Randy Marsh who raised him in high school. Although Stan is taller, they still had more in common than he liked to think: lack of abundant facial hair anywhere on the face other than under the nose, black hair, broad chin, hairy chest, the desire to avoid responsibility, and now the bottle of alcohol next to the living room couch. He fears for a moment that the 'continuing stench of alcohol' will be added to the list because he knows that his mother will no longer want to hug him if it happens.

His stomach is shaking

"Oh damn" Stan gets to turn to the toilet when he feels the gag start.

After the third puke, the gagging produces nothing but contractions in his body. He rests his face on the toilet bowl while regaining lost oxygen, vaguely aware that his camisa is stained.

He feels his stomach starting to wither again and he wants to sleep. He really doesn't care if he does it on the cold floor of the bathroom, even if it freezes his thighs where his underwear doesn't cover. He also doesn't care if his head is on the pot, if he has digested food in his nose, or if his mouth tastes like shit. He feels so tired...

The alarm on his phone rings from the couch. Stan moans in pain again.

"Jesus, please make it stop, please," he pleads. He would really like to sleep and forget for a while, _just a little please_. But Jesus is a bastard who never listens to him and the alarm goes off.

He manages to get up by resting his trembling arm on the lid, a slight dizziness makes him hold on to the sink. He knows he must do this, even though it is so cold that when he touches the water his body shudders.

By the time he finishes washing his face and rinsing his mouth the alarm is automatically postponed. He walks into the room looking for some warm clothes in the suitcase by the door and the path seems too long for his tired legs. As she finishes putting on her unzipped jacket, he realizes that his throat has gone from burning to contracting.

He puts his phone away and puts his hat on before leaving.

In the garage, the shovel looks the same as always, but the snow shovel is new. The road to the yard seems even longer and he really doesn't want to move because it's getting dark, and although he has pants on now, he feels his body tighten up against the cold coming through the holes in the jean.

His digestive cocoon mutes to what appears to be a heavy sack of lead balls or bullets. Although that was too violent a comparison for his weak stomach. Perhaps it was something more fragile, like a bag. A bag of the week's groceries, groceries that are too many for him to carry in that one bag and he doesn't know if the thin thing would hold up all the way to the apartment from the whole food, or why he bought that huge fruit that must be rotting in his fridge now.

"Like a stomach watermelon," he tells no one, and hopes no one answers. His metaphors are amateur poet crap, but he was studying marine biology, not literature. The alarm sounds again in his pocket reminding him to move and he disables it.

He takes the shovel, removes the snow, and goes out into the backyard.

The air is cruelly cold outside, itching his eyes. His yard, always empty except for Sparky's house, the tree and the occasional lawn, seems desolate now. He fleetingly lays eyes on a big old Amazon box by the back door of the house before deciding to put the snow remover on the ground. The shovel begins to break up the earth with effort.

As he works, he realizes that maybe he should have had another shot before he started, the cold of south park was making his fingers stiffer and stiffer. Maybe it was because he had gotten used to not leaving his apartment or _maybe_ it was because he was digging a hole at 6 o'clock in the afternoon. He really couldn't complain.

The work of digging is mechanical and simple, lately he likes mechanical and simple things. He thinks his sister must like her work; office work was a pretty quiet job. It would leave her time to spend with her children and her husband in Utah. Shelly had twins, two pretty nice kids just like their dad. Stan didn't understand how his cranky sister had gotten such a quiet guy. Right now, they must be enjoying their vacation in Texas and playing video games while he freezes in his backyard. He wonders if Shelly is with his mother now, if they are judging him for his absence and his priorities as if he were still a child. And he wishes be a child. He misses his childhood so much sometimes.

All his friends had chosen a different path.

He and Wendy had broken up in high school, they were on good terms, she had gone to Europe to join activist groups, they talked from time to time. Kyle was studying law in Denver, so they could still meet sometimes, although less and less, they didn't have much time now. All he knew about Cartman was that he was studying business administration in New York and Kenny was studying nursing at the local university while he was working. They each followed their own path into adulthood. Even Butters, who had run away from home after high school to join a motorcycle gang.

A gust of wind hit him right in the face, wetting his face. Cursing when his nose started to melt, he left the shovel to go back to the living room. In front of the TV, the scene of the bottle, the couch and the vomit were still there, intact, ready for another shot. He walked straight to the bottle.

Stan frowned at the liquid in the glass bottle when the smell of whiskey hit him. His mother hated the smell of it, she thought he would become an alcoholic, he avoided arguing with her.

The drink was languid but abundant, the warmth of the alcohol welcomed into the frozen body. He sighed, now his breath reeked of whiskey.

Stan drank in small quantities, but he did so constantly. He always drank a sufficient amount to keep himself on his feet and only got drunk when it was a particularly hard day. Unlike his father, he did not drink for pleasure. Even so, his mother insisted that he looked like Randy, and he could admit that he was, but she didn't understand that her son was actually identical to his father-in-law.

Stan Marsh and Marvin Marsh had a lot in common, and over the years he had realized that they were similar in essence: they were the same height, easily addicted, loved animals, were enveloped in a silent sadness, and were constantly seeking affection they could never find. He took another quick drink, now ignoring the smell.

Walking with the bottle out into the cold courtyard, Stan thinks of the man with the bullet in his penis. He thinks of how his shoulders were shaking with pain as he held his crotch, and how he doesn't think it's so funny now because his body is shaking with chills as he holds a bottle of whiskey. He takes a long drink before he puts the bottle next to the snowplow and keeps digging.

His fingers, he briefly realizes, are stained green and red from the effort. The wind is drying up his eyes, but his nose is still runny incessantly. His stomach, now full of alcohol, continues to get heavier and heavier.

"Damn watermelons that don't float," he says, and then he snorts a bit because the thought is ridiculous, although he can't really remember whether the watermelons float or not.

The hole is ready for when his hands are unable to hold the shovel without shaking. His throat is now dry and tight, his forehead is sweaty. Living in the cold is shit, he thinks about going to California as soon as he finishes his studies, near the sea, far from blue mountains.

A small gasp escapes from his mouth as he leaves the dig.

As he walks across the yard, he feels his breathing slowly quicken and Stan begins to regret that he _might_ die of hypothermia in his backyard if he doesn't hurry. He takes the box in his arms and presses it to his chest as he walks back. This time when the wind blows it into his face, it smells unpleasant. It must have been a few hours. He squeezes the box a little harder.

The world is quiet today. The sky is getting darker, but it looks placid outside, without clouds, with orange traces that refuse to disappear. It reminds him of Kenny. He thinks about visiting Kenny when he gets to the edge of the hole. From above, it looks like a badly made hole, but also cozy as a strange nest.

His phone suddenly rings, startling him. He looks in his pocket, won't check the message, he knows it's his mother berating him or his sister insulting him for being a shit and although Stan says he frankly doesn't care anymore, he gets a little angry.

He puts the box over the edge and throws himself into the hole. It's not very deep, barely reaches his waist, but it's wide. When his arms move the box down, he feels the contents roll a little and his face shrinks in worry. Stan strokes the box with trembling fingers as he holds it close to his chest.

"Good boy, you were always a good boy Sparky," his voice comes out hoarse and unrecognizable.

He knows that there is nothing after this hole but dirt; dirt and sheets around a body and an Amazon box with the phrase 'South Park's fiercest dog' written on it in black sharpay. But he wants to believe today, and if only there was something after dark, he wants Sparky to hear it correctly.

Stan clears his throat and repeats the phrase as he continues to pet. A chill run from his thighs to his spine as he sits on the floor. 

When he was a kid, he thought Sparky was the coolest gay dog the world had ever seen. Today, remembering how he used to fight next to him when they played against Cartman or how he could jump two feet to catch a kibble, Stan realized that he had never really stopped thinking that. He couldn't have taken it with him to Denver and he knew it, but he wished he had seen more of it in the last few years.

He'd been looking after him all day since he arrived this morning. He had stood by his side talking to him, stroking him when he howled, and waiting for the seizures to stop. He hadn't had the money to pay for the euthanasia, and even if he did, his mother had only noticed Sparky's condition yesterday when she called Stan, and as usual, Stan had asked for him.

She told him he was a little sick, Stan didn't expect to find him dying.

Sparky, the old Sparky, had lived a good life, twelve years. And though Stan had seen less and less of him in the last three years, he still loved him. And even though Sparky had lost his sight completely a year ago, he still wagged his tail when he heard Stan's voice. That was even today, when Stan found him alone, peeing on himself and shivering in the backyard. His tail had stopped wagging at 3:40 pm.

He wasn't supposed to stay with Sparky. Sharon couldn't believe he'd rather take care of the dog than go to the hospital to see his dying father anyway. Shelly, who was in the hospital with her, had also scolded his for preferring 'a dog' to his own father, and he found that so hypocritical it was absurd. Randy had earned his worn-out colon, his dead liver, the breakup of his marriage, and his son's hatred. He could remember all the times he didn't listen to him, lied to him, got him into trouble, made his sister cry, put his family in danger and put them through hell because his mother was too insecure to make decisions.

And that continued until they were divorced for the second and final time. Then Grandpa died. Shellyl finished college and went to Texas. Sharon continued to be divorced, sleeping with Randy from time to time. Randy went to live in the woods, got liver cancer that metastasized to his pancreas and started asking for pity from others.

And Stan went to college working part-time to live in Denver and not come back to South Park more than two days a year.

He really couldn't understand how they blamed him for keeping his dog today.

"Bullshit," he whispered as he frowned. The sunset light was now completely gone, leaving only the sparse artificial lighting in his yard. Now the hole was dark and he was angry. He had to go to the hospital or his mother would not forgive him.

He realized that he had been holding the box tightly, perhaps in anger. With one last touch, Stan hugged the box one last time, until the sound of something breaking froze him. Fearfully, he checked the sides, but the sides were closed, although the smell hit him hard in the nose this time. He'd been there too long.

He placed the box on the ground and looked up, a dark, cloudless sky covered the attempted burial he had made. He stood up and placed both arms over the edge, he was ready to push himself out of the hole when he felt something move over his hand.

On the middle finger of his right hand, a small larva was climbing up to his knuckles.

Stan looked at it, incredulous, for a moment before noticing two others on his wrist. Looking closely, he noticed several more on his jacket sleeve and forearm. He raised both arms and followed the view to his other hand.

A sad sigh escaped from him when he realized he was clean. They were earthworms and he would think no more of it. Determined to leave he concentrated on the edge, barely shook both arms, wiped the sleeve of his jacket quickly and wiped his hand on his T-shirt, his hand frozen in his abdomen.

Something was moving under his fingers.

Not something, many.

As his heart began to ring frantically in his ears, Stan took two steps toward the box, where there was some light, and he closed his eyes tightly.

_Please no no please no please_

He put his hand away. He tilts his head to his chest and try to open his eyes, but he would not look. He take a deep breath.

_God please_

When his eyes opened, in the weak light, Stan noticed that his shirt was covered with larvae. Dozens of them. Scattered from his stomach to his chest.

A sterile retching made him stagger and his face twisted in something like disappointment. His lungs were beginning to need more oxygen now.

His eyes focused on the box. He noticed that an opening had been made on one edge of the center, probably since he had put the body there. It must have opened more as he held it in his arms and now the larvae were crawling out of the hole in the box. He could feel them still moving and rising in his flabby hand.

The phone rang with his sister's ringtone, and Stan thought briefly about his nephews playing video games.

While he was there, in a hole, covered with the damn things that were eating his dog. It was eating his bark, his love, his memories with Stan. It was eating what was left of his best friend and now him too. 

Before his eyes, a fat greenish fly flew out of the hole with a disgusting buzz. He closed his eyes.

Stanley Marsh screamed

He pressed his hands against his eyes and scream. He screamed as his phone notifies his father's death. He screamed as he rocked, sitting next to his dead dog again. He screamed as the larvae moved from his shirt to the rest of his body. And He scream as his face got wet again and his nose melted.

The moment he heard the footsteps of his neighbors rushing to where he was, Stan could admit three things to himself:

He was becoming more and more like his father

There was nothing beyond that hole

It wasn't cold.

Randy Marsh's cadaver was remembered by friends and acquaintances for being buried in what had been the hottest summer in South Park history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2\. Cadaver flies don't hatch until after several weeks, so that was a mother fly  
> 3\. According to one version, the Romans wrote on their graves the inscription "caro data vermibus", which means "Flesh given to worms". This expression would have derived from the acronym ca-da-ver (Wikipedia)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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